Like A Tattoo
by Meow-Mix-91
Summary: "He told me sweet lies of sweet loves, heavy with the burden of the truth. And he spoke of his dreams, broken by the burden, broken by the burden of his youth...The war is still waging inside of me...I'll wear it like a tattoo."


*Note: Takes place two years after the war. Snape is 40, Hermione is 20. HerpDerp, Enjoy. Completely un-beta-ed. Totally for fun; raging plot bunnies abound.

Like A Tattoo

He told me sweet lies of sweet loves  
Heavy with the burden of the truth  
And he spoke of his dreams  
Broken by the burden  
Broken by the burden of his youth

Fourteen years he said  
I couldn't look into the sun  
She saw him laying at the end of my gun  
Hungry for life  
And thirsty for the distant river

I remember his hands  
And the way the mountains looked  
The light shot diamonds from his eyes  
Hungry for life  
And thirsty for the distant river

Like the scar of age  
Written all over my face  
The war is still raging inside of me  
I still feel the chill  
As I reveal my shame to you

I'll wear it like a tattoo  
I'll wear it like a tattoo  
I'll wear it like a tattoo

Sade

It was Christmas Eve and all the Liquor stores were closed. She figured her best bet was a pub, at least _Spirits_, anyway. The place had opened up in Hogsmeade a few months after the war and its doors hadn't been closed since. She walked in, shaking the snow from her coat as she shrugged it off. She draped it over her arm and fussed with her hair momentarily before approaching the bar.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing here on a night like this?" The barkeep asked, polishing a pewter stein with a rag.

She smiled.

"The same as the rest of this lot, I'm sure."

He quirked an eyebrow, "Is that so? Well, I won't pry. What'll it be?"

"A scotch, if you please."

He gave her a bemused look and inclined his head in what she presumed was a sign of some sort of approval. He set the glass down in front of her and poured. She swirled the liquid in the glass before bringing it to her lips and downing its contents in one swig. It seared a path down her throat and left her mouth so inflamed, she swore she'd never be able to taste anything ever again. Slamming the glass back down onto the bar-top, she erupted into a fit of coughs. Tears welled up in her eyes.

Thankfully, the bartender was quick to fetch her some water.

"So it's _that_ kind of night, eh?"

He leaned against the bar, crossing his arms over his chest. She retrieved a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

"You promised not to pry."

He chuckled, "Touché."

"Perhaps I'll just stick with the wine."

"Red?"

"Please?"

"Comin' right up, Miss."

She let her eyes wander while she waited, it was virtually empty; a handful of lonely souls were scattered throughout the interior. A fire burned heartily in the fireplace. The hearth was adorned with a fresh pine garland sprinkled in sprigs of holly. Torch lamps decorated the walls, their flames flickering in time with her heartbeat. She surveyed the length of the bar, only stopping when she noticed an individual occupying a stool towards the far end. He sat hunched over an empty shotglass. A bottle of firewhiskey was nearby, empty about three-fourths of the way, she was careful to note.

"Here you are."

She flinched.

"Oh, yes, thank you."

She took a sip.

The barkeep went about his business, leaving her alone to her own devices after that. She placed her elbow atop the wooden surface and tangled a hand in her hair, releasing a heavy sigh. Again, she found her attention straying towards the man seated at the end of the bar. There was something vaguely familiar about him. His hair was pulled back, but a few strands of stringy black hair shielded his profile from view. She thought he'd managed to fall asleep right there stooped over his drink. His arm moved suddenly, and she watched in morbid fascination as his outstretched hand wrapped around the bottle in front of him. Slender fingers enveloped in skin almost the pallor of bone. They were the same hands that snatched a research paper on everlasting elixirs out of her grasp, sixth year.

"Comes in here every Thursday evening, that one."

She turned back to see the bartender staring at her.

"Sits in the same spot every week, asks for the same thing, and sits there 'till he finishes the bottle."

He refilled her glass.

"Poor bloke. He doesn't even have to ask anymore. We always make sure to have a bottle set out waiting for him before he comes in."

"I see," She gulped down the rest of her wine in one swig, "Excuse me."

Sliding off the stool, she made her way down the bar over to her former potions professor. As she drew nearer, he didn't seem to notice her. His head hung low. She moved to place a hand on his shoulder, hesitating before gingerly placing her palm against his back.

"Professor Snape,"

His head lifted lightly and he turned to see who had addressed him. She gasped, her brow furrowing when she saw his face. Stubble peppered the underside of his jaw and his eyes were devoid of any ounce of recognition. His cheekbones seemed more prominent than she last remembered, set into a pale, sallow, visage of the man who once lorded over them in the classroom.

Then again, the man had been sort of an enigma these past few years. After what turned out to be a near-death experience in the Shrieking Shack, he'd been transferred immediately to St. Mungo's—or so she'd been told. He'd lost so much blood that it was up in the air whether or not he'd actually survived the ordeal. The last she heard of him, he'd been released from St. Mungo's about a month later and had been reclusive ever since.

He narrowed his eyes at her, "Lily?"

She took a step back, "No sir, I—"

"No, not Lily, your eyes'r brown."

He used the bar as leverage to push himself up.

"Who are you?" He demanded.

He teetered dangerously.

"Professor, maybe you should sit back down." She suggested, reaching for his arm.

He jerked away, "Leave me be, witch."

"Sir,"

"Miss, is everything alright over here?"

The bartender hurried over having heard the sudden disturbance.

"Yes," She reassured him, "Everything's fine. I know this man."

"Move, girl!" Snape bellowed, stumbling forward.

By now, they'd drawn the attention of the other occupants.

"Are you sure you haven't got him confused with someone else?"

"The man was my professor at Hogwarts for six years, I'm sure I'd be able to tell the difference!" She snapped.

Snape's foot caught on the leg of one of the barstools and he tripped, landing on his shoulder. He rolled over onto his back, groaning, and she knelt down beside him. She helped him up into a, somewhat, seated position in front of her. The fall had subdued him for the moment and she took the opportunity to brush the strands of hair away from his face. Merlin knew what had possessed her to do so, but she placed a hand gently against his cheek. For the briefest second, she could've sworn she felt him lean into her touch. She urged him to look up at her.

"Sir, it's _me_, Hermione Granger. I was a student in your class at Hogwarts."

She stared into his eyes carefully as he searched her face, his brow knitted in concentration.

"G-Granger?"

There it was; she smiled, releasing a sigh she hadn't realized she'd been holding in.

"Do you remember, sir?"

He batted her hand away. _Yup, he remembered alright_.

"Granger, what—" He mumbled before his eyes slid shut and he slumped forward into her shoulder.

"Oh for goodness sake; do you people not know when to cut them off?"

She shot an accusatory glance at the man behind the bar.

He held up his hands in defense, "Sorry Miss, we're only trying to run an establishment here. We're not responsible for our patrons' self-destructive tendencies unless it starts to disrupt business. Now, we never had any problems with the bloke until you showed up and provoked 'em."

Hermione huffed.

"Help me up, would you?"

He grumbled something under his breath and came around the side of the bar to assist her in lifting Snape up off the floor.

With one arm slung over his shoulder and the other wrapped around the former professor's waist, he waited for Hermione to help herself up.

"Now what?"

She dusted off her denims and pushed a few errant curls behind her ear. Admittedly, she hadn't thought this far ahead. In fact, she hadn't much thought at all for once. _Must be the spirits_. She hadn't the faintest idea where Snape was staying these days, and seeing as how she started all this mess…

"I suppose he'll have to come home with me."

"He's all yours, Miss."

He waited for Hermione to retrieve her coat before depositing Snape into her grasp.

"Thank you."

"Miss, before you go, you'll need to pay for those drinks."

"Put them on his tab."

"He doesn't have one, I'm afraid."

"Right," She mumbled, nibbling her lower lip, "Well, now he does."

"Now wait just one sec—"

The pair disappeared with a 'pop' before he could finish.

-o-

Hermione apparated them smack dab in the middle of her bedroom. She lived in a flat over a little Italian bistro in Kings Cross. If it weren't for the _silencio_ charm she'd been forced to cast shortly after moving in, she'd never be able to get any sleep. The restaurant downstairs was a bit of a hotspot, so it could get considerably noisy, especially weekends.

She hauled the man over to her bed and let him fall face-first onto the mattress. He groaned in his drunken stupor. Hermione placed her purse on the dresser and threw her coat over a nearby chair she often sat in to read. Walking back over to the man strewn haphazardly across her bed, she ran a hand nervously through her hair, debating what to do next. She noticed the soles of his boots had bits of mud encrusted on them, so she decided to divest him of those first. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she pulled his foot into her lap and began untying the laces. Once she'd succeeded in tugging them off without waking him, she set them down on the floor at the foot of the bed. When she turned around to see what she could help him out of next, she was startled to find him staring rather intensely at her.

Hermione was at a loss for words.

"Granger," He finally said, breaking the uncomfortable silence, "Where the bloody hell am I?"

She sighed, "My flat, in London."

He pushed himself up off the bed and sat on the edge, his back to her, "And what in heaven's name would possess you to do such a thing, pray tell?"

Hermione drummed her fingertips across the bedspread.

"Well, you aren't exactly in a proper state to apparate without risk of splinching yourself."

The mattress creaked under his weight and she turned to see he'd managed to stand up. He took a careful step forward and swayed, placing a hand against the wall to steady himself. She rose from her spot and walked over to him.

"Professor, please, just lay down for a bit, it's really no trouble."

He jerked his head towards her, "I don't recall asking for your help, you stupid girl."

She frowned, eyes narrowing.

"Have it your way then."

The bed shifted to the side, the edge knocking Snape behind the knees and causing him to collapse back onto the mattress.

He coughed, a bit winded from being caught off guard.

"Wordless, _wandless_ magic? Really now, Granger? You truly are an insufferable over achiever."

"Why thank you, Professor. I'll consider that a compliment, as I'm sure such things are few and far between, from _you___anyway."

He scoffed and stared at the ceiling.

Hermione left him there and walked over to a nearby closet, fishing out a blanket. Shutting the door behind her, she returned to Snape's side and set the blue coverlet down. She looked at him. His right forearm was thrown over his face, shielding his eyes from view. His legs hung over the edge of the bed. She thought about lifting them onto the bed, but refrained for fear of irritating him further. Instead, Hermione settled for unfolding the blanket and draping it over his midsection.

When she moved back to turn away his hand shot out and grasped her by the wrist.

She gasped.

"Where are you going?"

He peered through half-hooded eyes from underneath his arm.

"To sleep."

She tugged on her wrist, but his grip tightened, holding her fast.

"Where?"

"There's a futon in the living room."

"Stay."

Hermione blinked.

"I beg your pardon."

"Stay." He said slower.

"Professor, I don't really think that's—"

He pulled on her arm and she fell onto the bed. For someone so inebriated, he sure seemed to retain his strength exceptionally well.

"Professor, honestly…"

"I'm no longer a professor, Granger. You need not refer to me as such." He moved himself further onto the bed and rolled on his side, back to her.

Hermione lay on her side, not sure exactly what she'd gotten herself into. She stared at the back of his head, afraid to move.

"I'm sorry." He mumbled, "I mistook you for someone from my schooldays earlier at the pub."

She bit her lip.

"You have the same shape to your face as she did, for a moment there I thought…" He trailed off.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, no longer able to keep still; her leg was cramping.

"She was a lot like you, I suppose; the 'brightest witch of her age', only not nearly as irritating."

She rolled her eyes, despite her increasing anxiety.

"She…she was kind, unconditionally kind," He continued, his voice soft with nostalgia, "She was never prejudiced against anyone or _anything_. She was, perhaps, the only person I could hope to have a civilized conversation with. All the other children at school were either twats or buffoons."

Hermione dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand to keep from laughing. She was overwhelmed with the absurdity of the situation she'd managed to land herself in. She didn't know what else to do but keep quiet and listen. Part of her couldn't help but feel a tinge of guilt. She knew precisely of whom he spoke. Harry had told her everything one night, several weeks after the conclusion of the war. They were sitting in front of the fireplace at Number Twelve, Gimmauld Place. He'd sort of let it spill out, and cried in her lap. He'd felt so riddled with guilt of his own over everything that had happened. To have finally learned the truth, to have seen and experienced firsthand just how much one individual could love another…

"I loved her…I loved her more than I thought myself capable." Snape murmured.

He sighed, "It wasn't until years later that I discovered my reason for loving her was superficial. She was the only person that ever treated me humanly, the only person to ever _attempt_ to, for that matter."

Hermione shivered.

"I just wanted to feel _real_."

He was silent for a few minutes and she was almost sure he had fallen asleep, but then he spoke again.

"I never wanted to be a professor. I wanted to go to medical school. I wanted to be a Healer; to research and develop cures.

But then towards the end of my Seventh Year, the Dark Lord began recruiting. So, I picked the side I was expected to pick and played my role. I hoped, on more than one occasion, that I'd be killed, it would've been so much easier, and I was too much of a coward to take my own life anyway."

Hermione felt something cold slide down the side of her face. It wasn't until then that she realized she'd been crying.

"But somehow, I survived the numerous _Cruciatus _sessions, recovered from a string of injuries. For fuck's sake, I practically had my throat ripped out…maybe I'm immortal." He chuckled darkly, "Maybe that's my retribution for it all in the end."

Hermione swallowed thickly. She heard him whisper "_extinguere lumen"_ and her bedside lamp clicked off, enveloping them in darkness. His words were burned into her skull, seared into her very skin. She closed her eyes, her eyelashes still damp with tears. She knew what it felt like to go through the motions, not caring if you lived or died, finding yourself strangely hoping for death on occasion, just because it promised peace. During the war, when they were on the run, the boys and her, she'd lie awake in the middle of the night, much like this. She'd wonder 'what if'. "What if" she were just a second later in casting that _protego…_ 'what if' she hesitated for that split second it took to dodge the killing curse. Her ears would start to roar, like the sound of waves crashing against the shore. Her stomach would drop and she was gasp for air, reminding herself that she was still alive.

The springs in her bed squeaked, and she felt herself collide with reality. She was in her flat again, it was Christmas Eve, and Severus Snape was lying beside her. She lifted her head, and listened to the sound of his breathing. He was asleep, no doubt. Closing her eyes again, she listened to the sound of the clock tick on the wall, and let it lull her into sleep.

-o-

When Hermione woke up the next morning, she wasn't surprised to find he'd gone. The blanket she'd lent him was arranged over her form. She sat up and searched the room for any sign that he'd been there, that the previous evening hadn't been a dream. A little vial full of purple liquid sat on her nightstand. Nearby there was a scrap of paper with familiar scrawling penmanship, '_Take to relieve headache/nausea associated with excessive alcohol consumption._' Hangover Relief Potion. Her small hands balled into fists and she clenched at her blanket.

Her shoulders shook and she lowered herself back down onto the bed and cried.

-o-

_One year later…_

It was Christmas Eve. Hermione entered the pub, hung her coat up on the rack and strode over to the bar. The man behind the counter gave her a once-over and asked "What'll it be, Miss?"

"I'll have what he's having." She gestured toward the lonely figure seated in his usual spot at the end of the bar, sipping at a glass of red wine.

Severus Snape looked over at her, surprise evident on his face. She made her way down the bar, and sat in the seat next to him.

"Granger, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

She placed her elbows on the counter, clasping her hands together and resting her chin on top. She smiled.

"Do you remember that night, last year?"

He looked down his nose at her, "I've no earthly idea what you're referring to."

Her smile widened.

"Surely, Professor, you couldn't have forgotten."

"I'm no longer a professor, Granger. You need not refer to me as such."

When she looked at him this time, he was staring right at her with the same intensity as the year before.

"Yes, you certainly are not." She agreed, "I see you've taken to _tamer_?—alcoholic pursuits. That firewhiskey do a number on you?"

He eyed her, "If you drink the stuff long enough, you start to grow _numb_ to its affects. It's no longer as satisfying as it used to be and as such, lost its initial appeal."

The bartender placed a wineglass down in front of her and poured, filling it about halfway.

She took a sip.

"I was going to kill myself that night."

Severus took another sip from his own glass, "But you didn't."

"I didn't." She set the glass back down on the counter.

"Why?"

She noticed he'd already emptied his glass.

"Because," She started, "I owed you a drink."


End file.
